


Somewhere Only We Know

by taizi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: But Harry suffered too, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Suffering!George, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-03
Updated: 2011-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-25 05:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/949209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taizi/pseuds/taizi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>George is broken beyond healing, but Harry's stubborn. And maybe George is still a little stubborn, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fault

Voices came and went, but never the one voice that mattered.

So many words, choked and grief-stricken, clouding his room and his mind until he finally shut them all out. He doesn't  _want_ them there. He talks and talks to himself, instead, half-drifting, half out of his mind, but it wasn't the same. People always told them they sounded so much alike, but  _that_ voice was more beautiful, always,  _that_ voice always knew just what to say.  _That_ voice was gone forever. And he shakes as he whispers through the night, trying desperately to make the solitude less scary.

On the really bad nights, when his head is hot and his blankets are sweat-soaked, and his words are barely words anymore as the world tips and sways, he can almost believe that voice is really there.

So many faces they all blurred together, but never the one that mattered.

Every mirror in his flat broken, shattered, shards of reflection everywhere. He can't stand to see himself, but he used to love his reflection. He used to say so all the time, laughing, and being laughed at - he didn't mind they didn't understand. His reflection reminded him of how unbelievably undeniably indescribably lucky he was. His reflection went with him everywhere, reminded him every day he wasn't alone. He's alone now.

And the reflection in the mirrors is wrong. He notes this dully, staring at the glinting sharpness around him, the sticky red on his hands and fingers. Breaking the wrong reflection hurt him, but at least the wrong reflection's broken.

So many people, but never the one his heart is breaking for.

They sit, they talk, they touch his arm, touch his hair, kiss him, hold him, beg him to stay.

But that's stupid. He isn't going anywhere.

He isn't going anywhere.

Knocks on the door make him wonder. Family usually walks right in, like it's easier on him that way. It isn't, but he lets them come and go as they please. As painful as it is, when the door swings open he loves the powerful swell in his chest as his heart gives way to hope that maybe it's -

It never is, it never will be, but it's funny that he remembers hope. It's hard to remember. It's too much to  _think._ Names and places escape him. He barely recognizes visitors, even his own blood. The red hair should be a giveaway he knows, but colors are fading lately. He stares at them, unseeing, and he knows it's his fault they cry.

Time passes strangely these days, and visits are becoming few and far between. He knows it hurts them to see him, hurts everyone to see him, and he can't blame them. Loneliness is something he isn't used to, but he's trying to be, because all he is is lonely now. He doesn't even count as a  _whole person_ anymore _._ It's better this way, to stay tucked away and forgotten and forgetting. Better that he's by himself, keeping all his darkness close and contained.

He doesn't want to drag anyone down with him. He'll fall alone. He deserves it, they deserve it.

Knocking again. He doesn't answer, why should he answer, but a voice calls in, "George? It's me, it's...Harry."

Harry. Bright green eyes, messy dark hair, shy smiles and heartbreaking surprise at every warm word, every affectionate touch. Small and strong and always with so much to live up to.

He remembers Harry.

"I don't...I don't know if you..." There's a painful, pregnant pause before words are thrown in haste, as though they burn. "I came because Ron said you'd be here, 'cause you're always here, and you never leave and you never eat or sleep or talk, George, and I... I'm  _sorry._ "

What?

"I'm sorry. I'm scared you're going to die too and I want to tell you how sorry I am. It's all – it's my fault. Okay? It's  _mine._ If I could've...done something  _more,_ done something  _better,_ then maybe Fr..." The sudden, choked silence is full of weighted sorrow, regret, a fear as sincere as a child's. "Maybe he wouldn't have died. Maybe a lot of people wouldn't have died. If I could've been a better - a better _soldier,_ a better  _Chosen One,_ like I was  _supposed_ to be, if I could've  _fucking listened_ then maybe S-Sirius..." The words were trembling now, and full of tears. Words waiting to be said forever now finally tasting freedom and it must be so scary. "I'm sorry, George. It's my fault he's gone, my fault they're _all_ gone. Not yours, never yours. It's  _mine._  Please..."

It's not about that. Harry  _you stupid, stupid child._

It's not about fault.

He's across the room in four strides and the door is open before Harry is ready. His shoulders are bowed with a weight that never should have been his to bear, bright eyes searching his for just a split second – waiting for the  _agreement,_ the hatred, the blame that at this point would be so  _welcome_ because there has to be one constant in the world, one thing that he knows is  _right_ and it would be painful but  _God, just don't lie to me –_

George is holding him. Distantly, he's amazed that his arms remember how to do this, how to reach out and encircle and  _support._

But somehow, they do.

"It's not  _about_ that." George whispers fiercely. "It's not fault."

He has to believe it's not fault.


	2. Want

Harry's hand is in his and the only thing keeping him anchored to the moment. Standing in a small, quiet square of land, under a gray sky - a neutral pocket of the world, outside of which nothing exists.

At least that's what it feels like.

It's not right that his brother's here. Lying under the ground, tucked away so quietly, out of sight and out of mind, just another name in a row. No one would think to look for him here, in a place like this. His brother deserves something... _better._ Something bright and wonderful. Something verging upon inappropriate, ostentanious and distracting in this place of peace and mourning - because something like that would make his brother laugh and what else matters?

What else matters at all? What could  _possibly_ be more important than the fact that his brother is gone?

How dare they tell him to move on, to pull through? How  _dare they_ expect him to forget even an  _ounce_ of this monstrous ocean of  _hurt?_ Who do they think they are, to tell him to forget?

His breath catches and his eyes are stinging.

It's not fair that he can cry this much. He would never have thought years ago that a person could shed this many tears.

But years ago he'd never have thought -

"George?"

Crawling agony ripping through him again,  _again and again_ , the way it always does anymore, slowly, carefully, leaving him feeling hollow and sick and shaking and wishing impossible things. He sinks into a crouch, curling forward and trying to force the clinging thoughts away and keep his violent sobs as quiet as he can.

He's scared the pain is going to kill him.

He's scared he wants it to.

_I miss him._

_I want him._

"George," Harry's voice is so quiet, but the undercurrent of fear is there, plain as the uncaring world around them. He pulls himself in tighter, unwilling to show or share. He's pathetic enough, half-person that he is, he doesn't need Harry seeing this.

And Harry already has the whole world's problems on his shoulders. He doesn't need Harry seeing  _this._  But -

"I'm right here." Harry's words are close and so is he. He's pressing against George's side, leaning against him like he's strong. He knows not to say it's okay. George wants to cry harder with relief that Harry won't say  _it's okay._

It isn't okay. It will never be okay.

Something like this - it isn't okay.

"I want him," George whispers, feeling cold and shivering. For the first time, he puts his voice behind the bottomless desperation. "I want him.  _I want him_."

"I know." Harry's voice is trembling, about to break under the weight of  _understanding._ "I know you do." He looks like he has no idea how to embrace someone, even as he brings his arms around George.

And the weight of them - so slight, like they're barely there - sends an ache through him. Because he's so  _small,_ so much like a little brother and so  _in need_ of the same comfort he's giving away.

And George remembers, somehow, in this ink-black darkness that clings and binds and suffocates, how it feels to be a brother as he unwraps himself and pulls the scarred boy in close. He wonders at how twisted he is, that Harry could remind him of what his family couldn't.

But it's not  _blood_ that's important. It's  _not._

It's  _closeness._ And understanding, and - how could he push away  _Harry,_ who looks at him with hooded green eyes, waiting for anger and rage and hurt because Harry blames himself for every casualty, every  _death_ weighing on his heart; how could he push away Harry, who looks at him like it's just what he deserves?

So he holds him tighter and pretends he's still human enough to comfort and protect. He pretends—for just a  _moment—_ that he's not too lost to his own drowning despair to save Harry from his.

And maybe that's what works a sob loose from the younger boy, who immediately tries to muffle it, to pull away and  _hide._

"It's...I'm  _sorry,_ George. I'm  _sorry,_ I'm—"

"It's not your fault." The words are almost lost, he can't trust his voice yet. But he trusts Harry to hear him.

Harry's good at hearing him.

So he'll repeat it over and over and over again until somehow Harry starts believing. And maybe that'll help ground him, help chase the scary purposelessness away. He has to have a  _reason,_ a distraction, something, anything to keep him on his feet. He doesn't have the strength to stand on his own. He's never had to before.

He looks at the embarrassed young wizard in his arms, and feels a lightness he hasn't felt in months.

_Harry. Giving meaning to the worthless._

The polished stone draws his eyes, and he smiles at the name he can't bring himself to speak.

 _If I'm going to stay here, away from you,_ he imagines telling his brother gravely, resting his chin on Harry's head,  _it's gonna be for a damn good reason._

He imagines Fred laughing and, for a few minutes, all the darkness is gone.


	3. Words

They wanted to send him away.

It was a thought that circled his mind endlessly, during those vague drifting hours when the hungry, roaring darkness that made him remember and  _hurt_ seemed to rest. Those people - his family - wanted to send him away. They couldn't bear to deal with him anymore.

"You aren't getting better," his mother had said, with tears in her eyes and voice as she regarded him with heartbreak. "We just don't know what else to do, George."

He supposed it wasn't fair blame them; it wasn't their fault. He was tainted, and broken. Just being in the same room with him must have been hard. Plus, he reasoned to himself in that gray neutrality he much preferred to the restless, gnawing desperation, it wouldn't be so bad, wherever they sent him. He would miss his flat, but the walls and rooms held so much of his brother within them, it was almost painful to be there.

But, he knew, it would be as painful to leave.

 _Painful either way,_ he mused in those moments of sanity and indifference.  _My family shouldn't have to suffer, when I'll suffer regardless._

So he didn't raise his voice, even then, and let their eyes brighten in misery and despair - knowing that soon, he'd be far enough away that they'd forget him and, with the exception of a few guilty visits now and then, live their lives wholesomely without his shadow on their hearts.

They sat down around him, explained in hushed voices things he didn't care about. Their words wahed over him as he stared over his younger brother's shoulder at the clock ticking above the door. Something must have changed in his face, because his father's voice tapered into silence and no other voice came forward. Steps in the hall outside and a key in the door; George had given him a spare.

When Harry stepped in, George felt the rest of that clinging nothing fall away into something light and warm, and stood to meet him. He didn't speak, but held a hand out, shifting forward in anticipation. And Harry, who looked at the others in the room with curiousity, strode forward to grasp it, and regarded George-  _finally-_ with eyes full of affection. "Hullo, George," he said cheerfully, and led him back to the sofa. "Sorry I'm late."

Happiness filled his chest and he only nodded, a smile curled across his face. He was too aware of the others, too conscious of their presence with them in the room to speak, but he trusted Harry to understand. And as Harry sat next to him, leaned against him slightly, George could tell he did.

Harry began to talk, brightly asking the Weasleys about their visit, and George was content to watch his face. Until that smile faded and those expressive eyes darkened close to black.

"What?"

Harry's voice was so quiet, and the magic he always kept in check pushed at his shields, sparking and restless and so very dangerous. It rustled his robes, made his hair pick up slightly as if in a breeze. George watched him in fascination.

"Harry." His mother reached out with her hands, as if to assuage him. How she thought that might help was beyond George, as Harry's bright, livid eyes snapped to her. "Harry, we don't want this either, believe me, but - "

"How could you even consider it?" What made the danger real was the lack of inflection in a voice that was usually so straightforward. "Sending him away?"

"Harry, mate - " George recalled that his younger brother was quite close to Harry " - he isn't getting  _better._ He still misses Fred - "

Harry hissed and his arms came around George's shoulders before the pain had a chance to cut him.

"Like that!" His younger brother's eyes were wet, as he stood and gestured violently at George and all his awful misery. "See? That isn't _recuperating,_ that isn't  _getting on -_ "

" _How is he supposed to do that?"_ Harry yelled, standing - and George might have protested the absence of Harry's arms, but Harry's magic had flooded the room now, touching each of them with presence and weight. "How do you expect him to magically  _get better?_ " The irony of the statement might have been amusing, if George wasn't broken, and if it hadn't sent his mind reeling back to that moment so many years ago, watching little Harry clamber desperately out of a broken window into the back of their shabby blue Ford. He had been raised by such a terrible family.

It must have cost him dearly, to stand so completely against the one that had taken him in.

"This isn't  _normal,_ Harry - "

"They were different! Closer to each other than you were to them, you  _know_ that!" Harry seemed to visibly restrain himself, and said in a much quieter voice, "George is special. An  _exception._ You don't change him to fit the standard - that isn't how it  _works._  He'll get through this eventually - but it'll take a long time, and he won't come out the same in the end as he was before. You can't expect this not to have changed him. But he'll still be George."

Harry glanced at him with something fierce in his eyes. George stared back.

There was a few moments' silence, and then George's older brother spoke up, the one with scars across his face. "We appreciate your concern Harry," and though the sentiment was a tired one, sincerity flavored the man's voice and his expression was soft. "But we can't let things reach a standstill, for any period of time. If healing isn't steady and continuous, it - well, it falters."

"George should be allowed his own pace," Harry said stubbornly.

The scarred man hesitated, and then fell silent, as though unwilling to argue. George regarded him with approval, but looked away quickly when the man's eyes widened at him.

"When all's said and done, Harry, his family gets the last word." This was his sister. She had an air about her that was almost suffocating in its self-assurance. She leaned toward Harry as if gravity itself might draw him in to her, as if her presence alone was enough to make him see sense. George remembered, suddenly, that they once dated. From the look on Harry's face, those days were long gone. "And I'm sure we know what's best for him."

Harry's stance shifted, his hands sliding into his pockets. George was almost certain his fingers curled around his wand. " _Do_ you?" His voice was utterly soft. His family saw the threat for what it was and responded with stunned silence.

His younger brother's wife, a bushy-haired young women, looked apalled. " _Harry."_

"I wonder what the press will say about this," Harry mused, as if to himself. "A hero of the war, suffering the loss of someone dear - his family, pushing to see him silenced in a ward for the helplessly insane at St. Mungo's - "

His mother looked horrified. "Oh, Harry, you  _wouldn't._ "

"I hate that I'm famous," the scarred boy said quietly. "It's only ever caused me trouble. But I swear to God, I will use every ounce of my influence to make sure George gets his say."

"What say!" Another of his brothers nearly exploded, glasses all but danging off his nose. "He doesn't  _talk!"_

"You don't give him a chance to!" Harry shot back hotly. And George felt gratitude so overwhelming it rendered him breathless. Harry wouldn't call on him to speak in front of the others, even when it would give him the upper hand. "You just assume his weakness, his inability to move on! You never assume his strength! George is one of the most brilliant people I've ever known! The things he can create - his inventions, spells he's designed - they're  _amazing._ " Harry would never understand the power his presence had on people. His words, combined with his magic - people would follow him to the ends of the earth for a glance, for a smile, for a moment in that sunlight.

" _He's_ amazing," Harry said with conviction, "and I believe in him."

And the  _truly_ amazing thing was that he had George believing too. He felt his heart twist, his eyes burn. He stood, feeling the eyes of everyone on him and remarkably  _not caring,_ as he pulled Harry into his arms, loving the way the smaller wizard fit perfectly against him.

"Thank you." It was all he could get out, tears blurring his vision, sobs shaking his voice. "Thank you. Thank you."

Someone in the room started crying, but the only thing that mattered was Harry's arms coming around him in return.


	4. Him

George hears him sometimes.

When Harry's gone and he's standing in the flat alone, already sinking into despair the moment the door closes and leaves him by himself- George hears him, plain as day, as close as if he's standing right there.

It makes the tears swell in his eyes as easily as they had during the funeral he couldn't bring himself to sit through, curled up under a sink in the bathroom as the stranger in black told his brother's story, hyperventilating into his arms until one of his brothers found him and took him home. To hear his voice again was like having a hot knife seared through his heart that just kept twisting, over and over, back and forth-

_"It's alright, mate, it's just a dream."_

Because he had  _never_ lied to him. He had never done anything to hurt him. It had been nothing but love between them, the purest kind, the kind he can't share with anyone else,  _won't_ share, because it was so precious and unique it could only happen once-

And he wants with all his heart to believe him still, and wake up to him like he used to  _every morning of his life,_ to see him smile and reach out to soothe his hair back, soothe away the nightmare, the stupid concerns and fears that became so silly in the morning _-_ because that would be  _fair,_ that would be  _right,_ that would be  _wonderful._

But he isn't stupid. As lost as he is to misery, as broken as he is and as wretched, he isn't stupid.

And he knows it's a lie.

_"You'll wake up soon, love."_

And it breaks his heart to cover his ears and curl over his knees and force the voice away. It breaks his  _heart_ not to believe it. But he isn't stupid.

And Fred would be so disappointed in him.

That thought is more painful than the lies are, and he's able to push himself to his feet a lot sooner than he thought. If it was for Fred, he could do it- he could do anything. If it was for someone else, he could be strong.

_And maybe,_ he finds himself thinking when Harry comes in with dinner and a smile,  _I could try to be strong for me, too._

He dreams that night, and its different from the usual wordless, swirling gray-scale. This time he's standing in a field he recognizes as one near the Burrow, where there's a stream that sparkles when the sun hits it just right and sweet berries that grow in the bushes nearby. The day is golden and bright, and he turns to find Fred an arm's length away, smiling through tears.

It was like no more than a moment had passed since he'd last seen him, because George is reaching forward without hesitation to brush those tears away.

The hurt was nonexistent here; he supposes its fair, he'd been focusing on it for so long, to focus on something else. Like the way Fred laughs brokenly at him, or the way he reaches up to hold George's hand to his face, closing his eyes and leaning into his palm the way he hadn't done since they were kids and George got hurt falling out of a tree.

And George wonders suddenly, in a burst of clarity so powerful he can't move, if wherever Fred was, he was missing George too.

"I want to stay," he whispers, and his eyes are wet and burning. "F- Fred, I want to stay."

And his brother laughs again but it's like a sob, and George isn't sure which of them moved first but then they're in each other's arms and its  _right_ the way it hasn't been since the end of the war. They're pulling each other close, because the togetherness is what's real, what's important, the two of them belong right here-

"Not yet," Fred is saying in his ear. "Not yet, Georgie." George is shaking his head before Fred's finished speaking, and he's crying now, shoulders shaking in a way he can't help, trying to move even closer because there's no such thing as close enough, holding Fred with all the strength he has.

"I- I miss you." Now he's sobbing and he can't help it and he doesn't want to because it's Fred and he doesn't have to hide. "I miss you, I want you, don't m- make me go back, Fred, p- please, let me stay- "

A kiss is pressed against his temple, fingers carding through his hair, and Fred tells him gently, in a voice that limps and breaks, "I miss you, too. I want you here more than anything else, George, please believe me, please- "

"Of course I do. You've never lied to me."

"And I won't start." Some of the strength is back in his voice now, because Fred's always been stronger. "And I want you to stay, but you can't."

The words can't even cut him because Fred's kissing his forehead now. "Why not?"

"Because I love you, idiot." Its gentle and sweet the way it always used to be, and George bites back another sob. "And you're still alive."

_It's not fair, it's not fair, it's not fair-_

"I love you too."

"I know." Fred doesn't pull away; they're standing there in the circle of each other's arms- whole and good and united and together the way they were when they opened their eyes to the world for the first time. "But you need to get back out there and change the world- change it like we planned."

"Not without you- "

" _For_ me." Fred draws back now and it breaks George's heart, but he doesn't go far and it's only so he can look straight into George's eyes. "Do it for me, George. Will you?"

George wants to say no. He wants to say it isn't fair to ask this much of him. He wants to cry more and cling to his twin with everything he has, and beg and plead until Fred breaks and lets him stay forever.

But looking into eyes that are just like his, in a face that matches his own, George knows what he's going to say. He knows and it makes the tears roll faster and his vision swim, and Fred's stroking his hair again and the world's getting brighter and brighter until George knows its about to become too brilliant to exist- and Fred knows it too, and his arms tighten around George in something between fear and desperation-

So George closes his eyes and kisses his cheek and whispers, "I'll do anything for you."

Fred laughs and its tearful and heart wrenching and its echo will linger in George's heart until the moment it stops beating and he can hear it again for himself in a golden meadow-

"See you later," his twin says before the blinding white engulfs them.

George braces himself before he opens his eyes, but the dark flat still brings him to tears.

 


	5. Real

When he picked up his wand again, for the first time in almost year, it sang to him.

He curled his fingers around it in wonder and it  _warmed,_ and kept singing- very softly, a hum that he could feel more than he could hear. But it was slow and nostalgic, and he could only stand there until it stopped.

And when it did, the wand kept warm.

_This is real._

It never sang again, but that one time was enough.

Real, natural, effortless. Everything he needed, everything he was. A whim on his fingertips, the way it  _should_ be- the way it was, when he was whole.

It wasn't fair of the magic to forget that. A lot of things weren't fair.

_But a lot of things are._

And there was purpose again, and color. And with purpose and color, the pain didn't cut as deep anymore.

How could it? There was a world outside- he had isolated himself from it, but it was still there. Life had gone on when Fred had died, even if George's hadn't.

And it was time for him to face that. It was stupid to let the hurt have so much power. He loved his brother a lot more than he missed him.

 _Take that,_ he told the darkness,  _and choke on it._

A whole world, full of people laughing, living, suffering just like him- a world without the things he was capable of bringing to it.

That wouldn't do. It would be so terrible if all of his dreams died with his brother. Fred would be heartbroken, so George would be too, and he was so  _sick_ of broken hearts. Magic could fix it, because the right kind of magic could fix anything, and he had just the right kind.

He wrote this on paper, and Lee responded to his owl the day he sent it, agreeing whole-heartedly in letters that shook as though he'd scribbled them in a hurry. He could imagine Lee hunched over his desk, telling the owl not to leave he'd have a reply in just a second-

He could imagine.

Changes had to be small, or they wouldn't take. And Fred would be there in every stroke of a spell, every breath, every step. And knowing that made any hesitation pointless.

_Forward, Georgie, because-_

_-it's the only direction worth going. I know.  
_

His family would come around. Harry would help him.

The day after the letters, Lee burst into George's flat like it hadn't been a miserable year broken and apart, and hugged him the way he always had, like he could trust George not to break from the force of it. When he stepped back, he searched George's face and George felt a pang because he knew  _exactly_ what Lee was doing.

Lee had always been the best at telling them apart. And now he was grinning, and told George that without a doubt, Fred was still here. George blinked at him in some surprise, and it wasn't hard to speak in front of him the way it was in front of his family. Lee planted his hands on his hips.

"You have some of his eyes in yours now, you know?"

Lee had loved Fred too. George stared at him for a long moment and Lee stared back, and maybe they both remembered the time Fred declared to all of Gryffindor Tower that Lee was a Seer because he always got their names right, while George laughed and Lee took a bow and was their best friend from then on-

Because a moment later they were laughing, like they'd never known hurt. It didn't last long and bitter memories replaced the sweet ones quickly, but it happened. George wouldn't forget it happened, when the bad days came knocking.

Maybe soon the sign downstairs would read "Open" again, and the instruments that were his and his brothers' invention would whir to life once more, flooding the building with light and color and sound and laughter.

If not soon, someday- George was ready to give the world a few good laughs.

* * *

When Harry came over George's little brother was with him, because they'd just gotten off work; Harry looked flushed and pleased, while his brother ruffled Harry's hair and kissed him on the side of the head fiercely, not casting a single shadowed look in George's direction or treating him like a diseased stranger. In fact, he glanced at George and grinned.

"Head Auror," he announced with such pride that George felt the beginnings of a smile on his face, while Harry just looked embarrassed. " _My_ best mate got promoted to Head Auror today!"

And he was  _happy_ and that was  _real_ and it was happiness for  _Harry's_ sake, Harry, who deserved it-

George chuckled. "Hullo to you too, Ron."

The name slipped out almost of its own accord, causing George to blink in some surprise.

But no, that was his name. Ron- little Ron, whose blue eyes were so big all those years ago when he asked if he could ride on their broomsticks with them, so hurt when Fred said no so fast, and so full of hope when George flew down to land beside him. He remembered Fred calling out that mum said no, and remembered ignoring him because no way Fred cared what mum said, it was just an excuse to leave Ron on the ground. George landed next to Ron and patted the handle of his broom, and little Ronnie hesitated even as he took a step forward because mummy  _did_ say it was dangerous-

 _"It's dangerous by yourself,"_ he remembered saying that day, big and strong in front of his six year old brother who had the whole world in his eyes, " _but not with me. I'd never let you get hurt."_

He remembered, and wondered how he could have forgotten.

For an instant Ron's eyes looked just like they did back then- and then he was across the room so quickly he might've Apparated, his head buried in the front of George's robes and his arms around George's waist, and it didn't take George any thought at all to wrap him in an embrace as tight as he could make it, reeling with the thought of almost having thrown him away.

"You remembered," he whispered, so quietly George almost didn't catch it. "You remembered me."

 _I did,_ George thought, and held him, while his dreams of the future grew richer and expanded to include Ron, because he deserved to always have a place there. George glanced up and Harry, who stood discreetly by the door, gave him a quick smile and a nod, slipping outside to give them time alone.

Which was stupid, because by now he was as close as family anyway. George wished he understood that.

But George let him leave, and his heart didn't lurch when the door shut behind him because he trusted Harry to come back. They had to celebrate after all, and then they had to talk.

_I hope he doesn't think he's allowed to disappear now. We have a lot of work to do._

He stroked a hand through Ron's hair, and thought of things that were real- timeless meadows, friends worth having, green eyes and singing wands.

It was time to live again. 


End file.
